stitching quilts of ripping patches
forward but noisy
like chains dragging on asphalt
shelves with closed books
tired pages
Reaching for
MoRe.
grinding (to) bones
stripping clothes
foreskin hanging to my toes
growing nails to my nose
inhaling my past
ghost hit
shoooooooooooooooooooooooots
my boomerang cerebellum
to a Purity
like a quiet rose
in a glass vase
with petals fluttering,
blowing kisses of death
whispers
into grand charades
so a thorny stem
basking in a moment
free
from itself
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